


We Don't Have To Talk About It

by airspaniel



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Assumptions, Canon Compliant, Drunk Sex, Drunken Shenanigans, Exhibitionism, First Time, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Kissing, Lack of Communication, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Pre-Canon, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-12-08 18:36:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11652348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airspaniel/pseuds/airspaniel
Summary: Five times Chris and Victor should've had a conversation and one time they REALLY should've had a conversation.





	We Don't Have To Talk About It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dance_across](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dance_across/gifts).



> So back in March I told dance_across I would write her a story about Chris and Victor. Four months later, I finally managed to finish it. I am not a speedy writer. And then I made her beta her own gift, because I am thoughtful like that. -_-
> 
> All the sex in here is consensual, but there's a lot of drinking involved, too, so fair warning if that's something you are sensitive to.
> 
> Title from "Don't Have To Talk About It" by We're About 9, which I mention mostly because more people need to know about their music.

1.

Chris cuts his hair after his senior debut season, shaves the back and sides and leaves the top just long enough to run his hands through. He looks older, like a stranger; dangerous and maybe even a little sexy. So different from the cherubic innocence that was a hallmark of his junior routines.

He's a man now, and he's decided that innocence is overrated.

He doesn't feel it yet, the easy confidence he's trying to project, but he'll fake it as long as he has to until it's real. Since he just spent the evening clubbing with Victor, since he's in Victor's hotel room, he thinks it's probably working.

Chris is drunk, maybe a little bit high, soft around the edges and warm; aware of his body in a way he normally isn't off the ice. The lights of the city skyline are fuzzy smears of orange and pink and white against black, and Victor is flying. He's dancing, arms raised over his head, hips and shoulders twisting in slow, rolling movements. His pupils are blown black, eyes half-lidded, lost to the music pulsing in tinny beats from his iPod.

"Chris," he whines, pushing his shirt up with one hand, baring his stomach. "Clothes are bullshit."

Chris laughs and slouches further down in his chair. "Total bullshit," he agrees, cheerfully.

Victor closes his eyes and smiles, languidly feeling himself up as he tugs the shirt up and off. His skin glows white against the window, his silver hair catching the lights from outside and reflecting back in pink and orange and blue. He looks like a fucking angel.

"You look like a fucking angel," Chris says, and Victor turns to face him, and the way his eyes slit open is anything but angelic. Chris blinks and suddenly Victor is in his lap, long legs folded on either side of Chris's hips, and they're kissing.

It's not Chris's first kiss, not by a long shot, but it is the first time a kiss has felt like sex right from the start. No hesitation, no awkward shyness, no build up. Victor fucks Chris's mouth with his tongue, and Chris opens up and takes it, lets his hands rest on Victor's hips, digging in just enough to keep them from shaking.

Victor laughs into the kiss and grabs Chris's wrists, slides his hands back until oh my god, he's got Victor's ass in his hands, pert and round and perfect, and he squeezes just to feel it resist. Victor's hands move to the front of his body, unfastening his pants, and when the waistband hangs loose off his slender frame, he catches Chris's hands again, lifts them up then presses them down under the fabric, and Chris is touching Victor's bare skin, his fingers are brushing the crease of Victor's ass, and he has to close his eyes for a minute and think about the brutal impact of the ice when his quad salchow fails to keep from coming in his pants.

He exhales hard, bites at Victor's shoulder, and Victor doesn't seem to notice how close he is. His head is thrown back, hips pushing back against Chris's hands, then forward, grinding their dicks together. Chris moans, and his hands slip against Victor's skin, fingertips teasing Victor's hole, and he's never touched anyone else there; it feels different than his own body does.

Victor kisses him again, wet and dirty, a promise, then stands up to kick his pants off and lay himself out on the bed. Chris takes a moment to just look, hoping he doesn't seem as breathless and overwhelmed as he feels.

"Lube and condoms in my bag," Victor says, nodding at the duffel next to Chris's chair, and Jesus this is really happening. He finds the stuff, tosses it on the bed next to Victor, and climbs up until he's kneeling between Victor's legs. Victor's got the lube in his hands already, flicking the lid open and getting his fingers wet. He pulls his knees up, thighs spread wide, and Chris's mouth goes dry.

Victor drags his wet hand down over his hip, teases his cock just a little before slipping his fingers further down, two fingertips rubbing slick circles into the soft clench of his hole, not pushing in, not yet. "Take your clothes off, Chris," he says, not asking. "Come fuck me."

Chris yanks his shirt over his head, hiding his face in it for just a second, just long enough to catch a breath. "Maybe I wanna watch you for a while," he says, proud of how steady his voice sounds, and even more proud of the way it makes Victor's eyes light up.

"Then I guess I should give you a real show," Victor says, and shoves two fingers into himself. His head snaps back against the pillow, voice breaking on a pained cry, and Chris's hands are frozen on his own waistband as he stares, transfixed. Victor bites his lip, whines around it as he presses deeper. The pink flush on his cheeks is darkening to red as Chris watches, red to match his bruised lip, red to match his pretty cock, which has softened slightly, curled up against his wrist as he fucks himself on his own fingers.

"Holy shit," Chris murmurs, and Victor's dick twitches at the sound of his voice, and it's maybe the hottest thing that has ever happened.

Victor laughs around a moan, moving his fingers faster. "Mmm, yeah..." He says. "Get your fucking pants off, Chris. Give me something to look at."

"Yeah..." Chris undoes the button and zipper, shoves the pleather club pants down his thighs and Victor laughs again, delighted, when he sees that Chris isn't wearing anything underneath them. He didn't want lines, that's all, it's not like he planned this.

"Naughty," teases Victor, like he isn't two, no three fingers deep in his own ass at the moment. "I like optimists."

"As much as you like getting fucked?"

"Mmm, no." Victor tosses the lube at him and Chris manages to catch it before it hits him in the face. "So hurry up."

Chris slicks his hand up, but if he touches his cock it's all over. Instead he thinks really hard about the changes to the base point value of his free skate if he changes all his triples to quads he can’t yet do, if he moves all his jumps to the second half, calculating decimals and not thinking about how he's about to be inside another person for the first time. He cups his hand over Victor's, where it's working between his legs, and on the next push in he adds one of his own fingers to the stretch.

How many tenths of a point would he gain for making his triple toe loop a quad and connecting it to a triple, oh fuck Victor is so hot inside, how many tenths would he lose if he biffed it and did two triple toes in a row... Chris leans forward and kisses Victor's throat, feeling the rumble of his voice as he pants - "Yes, yes, Chris, fuck me, now, do it now."

Chris thinks about numbers as he tears open a condom, about deductions as he rolls it down his dick, about the cold sting of the ice as he moves his hand, and Victor moves his hand, and he pushes himself into the tight, welcoming heat of Victor's body. And fuck, _fuck_ , he's never going to be able to skate without getting a boner again, after this.

Victor sighs and goes boneless beneath him, pliant and pleased. "Yeah," he says. "Just like that."

 

2.

Later in the night, when the sun is just teasing the horizon, Victor wakes him up with a hand on his dick, nudges him to his side and sinks a finger into him. He's never done this before, either, but Chris just arches his back and says nothing, except "more," and "Victor, yes," and the slow, heavy push of Victor’s cock into his body is a feeling he never wants to live without.

 

3.

Ibiza is an endless party, and Chris can feel the music under his skin like glitter in his blood. Victor is… somewhere, out in the sea of people on the dance floor, and Chris feels a swell of irrational pride at the thought that wherever he is, whoever’s hands are on his body, Victor is going home with him. Well, going back to the hotel with him. Victor hasn’t seen his apartment, and he hasn’t seen Victor’s, but it doesn’t bother him. They spend so much time traveling anyway that it doesn’t even matter, moments stolen in hotel rooms and hallways, in clubs like this one, in text messages and social media posts. Chris knows that Victor considers him a close friend, knows that he feels the same; that Victor is probably his best friend, and sometimes they fuck. Some days, when he’s tired, or when it’s been weeks since the last time he saw Victor in person, Chris wonders if he’s in love with him. Wonders what it would feel like, to be in love.

He figures that’s probably how he knows he isn’t. But as he watches Victor wind his way back to their table, wrapped up in a beautiful boy with dark hair and dark eyes and wandering hands, something tight and fierce clenches in his chest.

“Chris!” Victor calls, laughing at the way the other man is pressing up against his back, running his hands up Victor’s sides (Victor’s ticklish, Chris thinks, he doesn’t like that, but he isn’t pulling away).

Victor reaches out, tugging on Chris’s hands until they’re chest to chest. He twines their fingers together, holds them behind Chris’s back when he hugs him. “Chris…” he repeats, breath liquor-sweet and soft. “This is _Sebastian._ ”

“Hi,” the dark-haired man says, smiling into Victor’s neck even as he looks at Chris, something appraising in his gaze.

Victor smiles, leans in to tease Chris’s ear with his lips and tongue. “I told him we would show him a good time.”

Chris takes a second, reframes the situation in his head. His best friend wants to bring another man into their bed, and there’s no reason not to. Sebastian is beautiful, and he’s into this, and it’s going to be a good time. With Chris and Victor involved, that’s guaranteed.

So Chris shoves down the sour taste in his throat, forces the tightness in his chest to let go, and lets himself enjoy the moment. He wants to kiss Victor, but instead he turns his face, opens his mouth against Sebastian’s. Victor’s chest hitches in between them as they kiss, and Chris doesn’t look at his face.

He smiles as he pulls back from the kiss, keeps his voice light. “I think that can be arranged.”

 

4.

They talk. They talk all the time, hours spent on the phone and over SNS. Chris has rarely felt so close to another person, and he knows Victor feels the same. When they're together they drink too much, stay out too late, fall into bed with any number of pretty young things in between them. The nights always end with the two of them alone, with Victor sprawled across Chris's body, arm over his chest, legs tangled together, snoring lightly against his throat. Chris rests his hands on Victor's back and feels him breathe.

He doesn’t wonder anymore if he’s in love with Victor. It doesn’t matter what he calls it, and love seems like too simple a word for everything he feels, everything they share. He hates labels, anyway. Labels only lead to misunderstandings.

“Chris?” Victor says, a muffled murmur against his skin. “Everything okay?”

Chris smiles and strokes his hand through Victor’s hair. “Everything’s perfect,” he says. “Go back to sleep.”

Victor huffs out a sleepy sigh and curls in closer to Chris’s side, his fingers spread out over Chris’s chest, over his heart.

Sometimes they don't talk. And that's fine, too.

 

5.

_you cut your own hair?_

The text catches Chris off guard. Normally Victor at least says “hey” first. 

_I trim it sometimes. is it bad? I can fix it before tomorrow..._

Victor’s response is immediate and unsettling.

_I'm coming over_

Chris has a bad feeling about this even before Victor shows up, and when Victor arrives, his sunny smile getting nowhere near his eyes, he knows he's right. "Can I help you?" he asks anyway. 

"Chris, darling," Victor says, breezing into the room. "I need you to do me a favor."

"And what's that?"

Victor wraps his ponytail around his hand and yanks it to the side. "Cut this off for me?"

"You're not serious," Chris says, laughing, only to stop dead at the look on Victor's face. He's not smiling anymore, and there's something cold and determined in his eyes. "You're serious."

"Completely," Victor replies, affecting a lightness he clearly doesn't feel. "It's time for a change, you know, have to keep everyone on their toes." He twists his hair in his hands, curling it around his fingers and letting it go, curling again, a nervous gesture. Chris reaches out and covers his hands with his own.

"Victor, what - "

"Please," Victor cuts him off. "Please don't make a big deal out of this?"

Chris nods. Lifts Victor's hands and presses a kiss to his knuckles, to the soft silver locks that fall over them. "Okay."

They drag an ottoman into the bathroom, and Victor sits down facing away from the mirror. Chris doesn't ask, just digs his grooming kit out of his bag and pulls out his scissors, plugs the clippers into the wall.

"You should really go to a stylist for this," he says as he combs his fingers through Victor's unbound hair, memorizing the way it feels as he gathers it into a low ponytail and braids it. "I'm not a professional."

Victor sighs heavily. "I trust you," he says. "Just... get it off and I'll fix it later."

Chris ignores the way his heart leapt at I trust you, ignores the way his hand is shaking slightly as he picks up the scissors. Ignores the feeling that he's about to destroy a work of art, like taking a knife to the Mona Lisa's face. Ignores how badly he wants to talk Victor out of this decision.

"Yes, sir," he says, going for flip and missing by a mile. He cuts into the hair at the base of Victor's skull, just above the hair tie, and the sound of the scissors is making him sick, but he does his best to cut a straight line. Victor's hair falls forward as it's severed, hiding his face behind chin-length silver. The scissors are too short for this, meant for trimming, and it takes him five cuts before the braid falls into his hand, hanging over his palm like a dead thing, limp and lifeless. It's still so soft, pale and beautiful, but there's nothing vital about it anymore.

"All done," Chris says, tossing the braid into Victor's lap. Victor starts to stand up, knocking it to the floor, but Chris stops him with a hand on his neck. "At least let me even it up?"

"Okay," Victor says quietly. His voice sounds thick, but he doesn't say anything else, just eases back into Chris's touch. Chris puts the scissors down and picks up the clippers, more accustomed to the weight in his hand, and uses his fingers to create straighter lines, putting in rough layers with the edge of the clipper blade until Victor's hair looks... not good, not really, but a reasonable enough cut to wear outside of this hotel room. Chris has never seen this much of the nape of Victor's neck exposed all at once. He looks naked, and Chris wants to kiss him, wants to wrap him up and keep him safe. So he does, shifting to his knees beside the ottoman and winding his arms around Victor's waist, pulling him back into his chest until he can kiss the side of his throat. Victor's hair tickles his cheekbone when he does.

"You should sell that," he says, nodding towards the braid on the floor. “A wigmaker would love to get their hands on it.” So would his fans, but Chris feels strangely against the idea of people touching Victor’s hair like that.

Victor scoffs and snuggles further back into Chris's embrace. "You sell it. I don't care. I'm fucking done with it."

"Are you - " okay? Chris doesn't say, when Victor goes tense in his arms. He changes tack. "How does it feel?"

"Lighter," Victor says, laughing. Chris grabs his thighs to spin him around on the ottoman, tugging until they’re face to face and he’s kneeling in between Victor’s spread legs. His hair isn’t even in the front, not quite, but Chris reaches up and runs his hands through it, parting it on the side, and the asymmetry almost looks deliberate. He may never get used to the way Victor’s hair just… stops, now, where it used to tangle through his fingers and over his wrists.

But there’s something lighter about Victor’s face now. Something almost relieved.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Chris asks.

Victor shakes his head, runs his fingers back through his hair, laughs again. “No, definitely not.”

Chris smiles and runs his hands up Victor’s thighs. “Wanna fuck about it?”

Victor’s answering grin is wicked and grateful. “I thought you’d never ask.”

 

6.

Chris is breathless, panting, sweating from the exertion of a really good workout, drenched in champagne and standing in his underwear in the middle of the Grand Prix gala; and while he never in a million years would have expected that Yuuri Katsuki would be the reason for all of this, he is absolutely _delighted._ Katsuki’s stamina is incredible, especially for as wasted as he is, and it’s been ages since Chris had been challenged like that on the pole. Since he’s had a _partner_ like that on the pole, who could not only keep up, but seemed to read his mind; making the transition from impossible move to impossible move smoothly and without hesitation.

He watches Katsuki grind up against Victor, those perfect bare thighs spread around Victor’s Versace-wrapped leg as he rolls his hips up. He’s shrugged his shirt back on, sort of, and it keeps falling off his shoulder, keeps slipping down to hide the ample curve of his backside, and even hidden by the tight black cotton of his underwear there’s no doubt that Katsuki has the greatest ass in skating. Possibly the world. He’s pressed up against Victor like he’s trying to crawl inside him, and all Chris can think is _holy fucking shit, this is going to be the best sex of my life._

But Victor… isn’t doing anything. Victor is just standing there, letting this sexy young thing hang all over him, climb him like a tree, and he’s _not doing anything._ His hands are by his sides, not touching, and he looks… he looks _shocked._ Katsuki winds his arms around Victor’s neck, tips his head back and says something that Chris can’t quite hear, but he sees it on Victor’s face - the way it makes his breath catch on a gasp and his cheeks turn a shade of pink Chris hasn’t seen on him in years. And his eyes… Chris has never seen that look in his eyes.

It’s a little different from the dozens of times they’ve done this before, usually Victor is the one to make the suggestion, but Chris would be a fool to pass up the opportunity. He sidles in close, smiles invitingly, the same as he’s always done.

“Well, this looks like fun,” he says, tugging on the tie wrapped around Katsuki’s head, running his fingers back through his thick black hair. Katsuki sighs and turns his face into the touch.

“Chris,” he whines, and it’s adorable. “Tell Victor to be my coach.”

Chris laughs. “Oh, really?” He slides his hand down Katsuki’s neck, over his shoulder, lean muscle under soft skin that Chris wants to feel more of. He leans in close, practically purring in Katsuki’s ear. “You want this guy to tell you what to do?”

Katsuki groans, too loud and too needy for a public venue. “Yes, _please_ …”

“Mmm, you should know,” Chris teases, pressing closer to Katsuki’s back. “He can be quite the taskmaster. He’ll absolutely wear you out.”

“That’s enough,” snaps Victor, cold and not at all playing. He wraps his arms around Katsuki’s waist and pulls him away, protective and possessive.

“Victor?” Chris asks, startled. He lifts his hands, disarmed and confused and wondering what’s got that angry glare on Victor’s face. Wondering what he did to deserve it.

“Just…” Victor starts and trails off, staring at the man in his arms, who looks like he may have fallen asleep standing up. “Not right now, okay?”

He leans down to speak to Katsuki then, and it’s like Chris isn’t even there.

“Come on,” he says, “let’s get you to your room.” Katsuki blinks up at him, all sleepy smiles, and melts into his side; lets Victor guide him from the ballroom.

“Have a good night!” Chris says, falsely bright and hurt and not trying to hide it. Neither of them look back as they pass, like they’re the only two people in the world.

He gathers his clothes and heads to the bar. No reason to waste a party.

\---

Hours later, Victor knocks on his door, Victor apologizes, Victor presses him back against the mattress and climbs on top of him; kisses him like he’s desperate. And Chris has always, _always_ given Victor anything he wants, so he allows it, holds him close, returns those kisses with all the skill and reassurance he has in him.

“I’m sorry,” Victor says, pulling back, and Chris isn’t sure if he’s apologizing for earlier, or for stopping now. Doesn’t know which he’d prefer, honestly.

“It’s all right,” he replies, stroking his hand over the nape of Victor’s neck as he lies draped across his chest. Victor hides his face in the curve of Chris’s neck and is still for so long that Chris isn’t sure he’s awake until he speaks.

“Chris,” he says, soft and almost scared. “Have you ever been in love?”

Chris holds him even closer and tries to ignore the ache in his chest.

“Yes,” he says. “I don’t really want to talk about it.”


End file.
